


He makes the sound the sea makes to calm me down

by pentipus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal's yacht, Hannigram Holiday Exchange, M/M, iablmeanie, ill Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentipus/pseuds/pentipus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You, Jupiter, because you have provided the spirit, should receive the spirit when the creature dies; you earth, because you provided the body, shall receive the body. And because Cura first shaped this creature, so must it be that she possesses it for the time of its life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He makes the sound the sea makes to calm me down

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at fluff for [iablmeanie](http://www.iablmeanie.tumblr.com/), for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange.
> 
> Recommended listening: [A bit of Alt-J - Dissolve me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVrp7ZSiAM8).

Hannibal was ill after the fall, his skin grew greyer and greyer until he might have been made of stone. His wounds haemorrhaged and he vomited so much his throat bled. Will made medicinal teas and hearty broths as per Hannibal’s rasped instructions, growing ever more confident in the little galley of Hannibal’s yacht. He opened the boat’s long, thin windows and the door to the deck as often as possible, in the hopes that the smell of infection would dissipate, that the rank smell of something trying to die would just be swept away by the breeze.

Hannibal had been strong at first, hauling Will’s ragged body from the dark ocean. They had trudged together to the place where the modest yacht was harboured, climbing aboard as the sun rose over the Atlantic. Inside Hannibal had pressed one cold hand to Will’s bleeding cheek and the other between his legs, hushing him when he tried to protest. “Stay still,” Hannibal had said in a whisper. “You are bleeding still.” Then he kissed Will’s parted lips, his fingers pulling at the worn leather belt that Will had picked out that day. They fucked very slowly after that, barely moving at all, conscious of the blood and the gore that was spilling out of them.

It was a mistake of course, Hannibal was not the same afterwards, and deteriorated so drastically throughout the following day and night that Will was worried he would have to be buried at sea. Will fed Hannibal tinned soup with a hand against the back of his head, his fingers laced through Hannibal’s sweaty hair. He would make hushing noises, like the ocean outside, his hands against Hannibal’s clammy skin, hoping to expel his fever with white noise. Calming him, quiet and desperate.

Will read Hannibal extracts from the books that he found onboard, whispered passages from tomes of poetry that Will did not recognise, eyes flicking across the pages as Hannibal laboured on at his side. Greco-Roman fables about the creation of man, translated Latin myths that made him want to adopt a deep, British accent as he recited the words of Saturn;

 _You, Jupiter, because you have provided the spirit, should receive the spirit when the creature dies; you earth, because you provided the body, shall receive the body. And because Cura first shaped this creature, so must it be that she possesses it for the time of its life_.

Will changed the dressings on Hannibal’s wounds every morning and every evening, carefully peeling away the crusted gauze and cleaning it with a soft flannel. Every few days he helped Hannibal into the little shower, scrubbing shampoo through Hannibal’s hair as they stood naked together under the lukewarm water.

He cleaned his own wounds too, picking at the blood that had dried around the rough stitches on his cheek, thinking about how it had felt when the cold Atlantic had washed in through the hole that had been made there, freezing and salty against his tongue.

“Your wound is healing well,” Hannibal said as Will tended to his stitches, leant against the door jamb with his palm over the wound in his side. “You’re finally administering self-care, and all it took was a near death experience to prompt you into doing so.”

Will made a noise in the back of his throat as he watched his reflection, mouth open as he pressed fresh gauze against his clean cheek. “I need to be functional at least,” Will said when he had finished. “Otherwise who would look after you?”

Hannibal almost smiled. “I am capable of looking after myself.”

Will turned away from his reflection and raised an eyebrow, looking at Hannibal over his shoulder. “Overconfidence is a dangerous thing.”

“So is underestimating.”

“You should be in bed,” Will said as he washed his hands in the little sink. “Doctor’s orders.”

Hannibal said nothing; instead he continued to lean against the doorframe, watching Will as he carefully brushed his teeth. Will knew what Hannibal _wanted_ to say, he knew that Hannibal wanted Will to come to bed too, that he didn’t want to lie festering and sick and alone. Until that point Will had been sleeping on the long, hard sofa in the living area, too conscious of Hannibal’s strained breathing through the open bedroom door.

“Go to bed, Hannibal,” Will said. “I’ll be in,” he added quietly, smiling when Hannibal pushed heavily away from the doorframe and shuffled away.

The bed Hannibal slept in was warm and clean, Will had changed the sheets that very day, but the smell of sickness hung in the air like smog. Hannibal had rolled onto his good side, his hand still clasped over the bandages near his hip. When Will pressed his knee against the mattress Hannibal shuffled awkwardly backwards, grimacing as his muscles shifted, tugging at the stitches in his side.

“Are you in pain?” Will asked, his voice hushed in the darkness of the bedroom.

“Of course,” Hannibal replied.

Will settled himself down next to Hannibal and rolled to face him; there was just enough light to make out the gaunt line of his cheekbone, the crest of his unkempt hair against the pillow. Will reached out between them and nudged Hannibal’s hand from where it gripped the bandage at his side, placing his own hand over the hot wound and pressing gently. Will could feel the gentle throb of Hannibal’s healing blood pumping under his hand, the heat there as his skin and muscle fused back together. _It was a miracle_ , he thought. _A slow and violent miracle._

“You _will_ heal, Hannibal,” Will said softly. “The worst is over. You will get better.”

“Perhaps we have yet to crest the wave,” Hannibal replied, pulling his hands together on the bed between them as though he were praying. “I may still perish.”

Will smiled, pressing his face against the soft pillow. “I won’t let that happen.”

“To care is to live with a great burden, Will,” Hannibal said quietly. “Solicitude is a weakness.”

Will pressed forward until his chest was against Hannibal’s curled fists, the smell of Hannibal’s maladies in the hot air between them as Will leaned in and kissed Hannibal’s pale lips. Will let his head rest against Hannibal’s pillow, his hand still gripping Hannibal’s side.

“Then I am burdened,” Will said as he closed his eyes. “And I am weak.”


End file.
